Pirate's Booty
by SrslyNo
Summary: "Leaning against a crate, looking up at the star spattered sky, House was immediately aware something was afoot." Historical AU where our guys get to be pirates. Slash. Angst and humor.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer:** [H]ouse isn't mine and never will be. Historical and medical facts were constructed from spandex. It supports and shapes the story where necessary.  
><strong>Prompt:<strong> Written for **sickwilson_fest**. _1. Sailing Age - House and Wilson are officers/passengers on a ship that is taken a prize or captured by pirates. Harsh treatment ensues._ Apologies, my muse took me slightly off course.  
><strong>Beta:<strong> Beta magic performed by the inestimable **hwshipper**.

The story is complete, but it's broken into three chapters. Enjoy!

* * *

><p>.<p>

1806 A.D.

The promise of sleep danced on the edge of his awareness. Despite the rocking of the ship, the rhythmic snoring of his cabin mate, and the slaking of his sexual desires, Morpheus flirted but never fully committed to him. As noiselessly as he could manage, he dressed and went on deck.

The voyage to England had been tedious and unproductive. House looked forward to returning to his lodgings in Princeton and sleeping in his own bed.

Leaning against a crate under the star spattered sky, he was immediately aware that something was afoot. The coal bucket was alive with an orange glow but left unattended. And yet, as his eyes adjusted to the dark, he was aware that the deck teemed with sailors. They scurried about like frantic rats, speaking in hushed tones.

No orders were shouted yet clicks and whistles emanated from the quarterdeck as if exotic birds nested there. In response, soft hammering like a family of woodpeckers disseminated from the crow's nest, bow, and stern.

Thoroughly engrossed, he was startled when a shoulder bumped his. "Let it go, House. The lack of foresight by the Royal Medical Society shouldn't come as a shock. You have an original mind. Give them a decade or so to catch up."

"More like a century," House scoffed.

"Right now, you should concentrate on getting some sleep." Wilson nudged with his elbow and whispered, "Come back to bed."

"Shut up."

The thick eyebrows shot up in disbelief. "I was only trying to help."

"And I'm trying to listen. Look at the ocean. What do you see?"

"The usual. A crescent moon, black sky, black water…"

"And what do you see there?" House nodded toward the bow. "And there." His tilted his head back to the stern.

He could make out Wilson's eyes darting back and forth and heard an intake of breath.

"Waves reflecting moonlight on three sides but not…." Wilson covered his mouth with his hand and stepped backward. He pointed a finger at the sky.

Where darkness had prevailed a moment before, the insignia of a skull and crossbones whipped in the breeze.

"A blacked-out pirate ship. We're about to be attacked," House affirmed.

"We must warn the Captain!" Wilson blurted out, not realizing he was speaking loud enough to draw attention.

House clamped a hand over Wilson's mouth.

"Thank you, Paul Revere, but he already knows. Haven't you noticed the unusual quiet except for the tapping? The crew are communicating in code. Preparing for the sneak attack." House jerked his head toward a cluster of men gathering at the rail. "Not that it will do us any good against pirates." They were holding a variety of weapons. Sadly, the majority were pots and pans.

A small man, hat in hand, walked up and bobbed his head. "Gentlemen, the Captain regrets he can't deliver his message in person. He is engaged at the moment."

House snorted.

"However, he has charged me with your welfare. Mr. Pepper at your service, sirs." Another almost imperceptible nod. "If you will please follow me."

The man crossed the deck and motioned toward a rope ladder slung against the outside hull. Below, a crewman in a rowboat waved for them to board. Four fellow passengers were already sitting in it.

Wilson planted his hands on his hips. "Get in a bathtub in the middle of the Atlantic? I refuse."

At a loss to deal with such recalcitrant behavior, House cajoled, "Must I remind you who the petulant child is in our relationship?"

"You are. And that's exactly my point. You can't resist the chance to play with cannons and gunpowder." He wagged a finger. "Except these aren't toys, House. They can kill you. I'm not leaving your side."

At that moment a wobbly streak of red light shot overhead—a flare. The sails billowed like pink ghosts.

"Sirs, I beg you, do not tarry."

Wilson held his ground. Obstinate fool.

House sighed. "I'll go first. Will that satisfy you?"

"I'd feel better if you were strapped to an oar and lowered with a pulley, but all right."

House followed Pepper down the ladder. Before he made it to the bottom, he saw a fireball with a ruffled tail of curling smoke hurtling toward the prow. It landed with an ear-splitting explosion. The ship shook and loosened his grip. Trying to break his fall, his hand desperately grabbed at empty air. He landed hard onto the naked wooden ribs of the tiny craft. Besides knocking the wind out of him, he heard his right wrist snap, followed by blistering pain blazing up his arm.

Engulfed in a snowstorm of ashes, Wilson's concerned face appeared from the deck. He cupped his hands and yelled, "House, are you hurt?"

While House regained his voice, he attempted to hide his damaged hand in his coat pocket. "I'm fine," he called out. But the boat swayed and he bumped against a passenger causing him to flinch.

Thirty feet above, Wilson registered the reaction. "I'll get my medical bag," and disappeared.

There was a fluttering sound, like a flock of angry birds. The sails were on fire. House could hear commands shouted by the Captain and a round of cannonballs boomed from their ship. The hull rocked from the blast and water sloshed into the boat.

"Doctor House, we can't wait any longer. Our boat is in peril of getting scuttled." Pepper started to release the tethers.

"No! Wilson will return. He always does. You can set your clock by him." Ignoring the pain in his wrist, he stood up and hollered, "Wilson!"

One of the passengers gruffly admonished, "Sir! I must insist you sit down! You're tipping the boat and endangering us by delaying."

Before he could whip out a put down, a surprisingly firm hand shoved him into his seat. He lunged at the seamen, but a fist struck his jaw. Stars veiled his vision before he blacked out.

~.~

The gnawing ache in his arm lured him to consciousness. The sight before him made him wish he hadn't. A forest of fire stretched in every direction. A blanket of smoke hovered above his head. The heat from both threatened to suffocate him. If there were a hell, this was it. House blinked to clear his stinging, watering eyes and recognized the debris fueling the flames as parts of the ship—benches, drawers, doors. Spokes from the ship's wheel floated past.

"Wilson," he whispered. He scanned the group in the boat—the same six men and him. "Where's…?"

"Your friend didn't make it, sir. I'm very sorry."

He slumped forward, observing a drip of water that fell upon his good hand. It was joined by another, and a third. He was too drained to wipe his skin dry. Too numb to fathom what it meant.


	2. Chapter 2

1811 A.D.

"Ahoy! Shipwreck!"

Upon hearing the heralded news the Captain of the _L'Imbeau_ burst from his cabin and scoured the horizon from the quarterdeck. Luck was with him. The gray storm clouds were still at his back—restrained guard dogs ready to pounce. Five degrees off the starboard bow his keen eyesight found the thorny masts of the _Jewel_. His hunch had been right. Her captain had tried to run for cover among the patchwork of islands in this sector of the Caribbean.

He stretched out his arm and snapped his fingers impatiently. The first mate stepped forward and slapped a spyglass into his hand. He peered into it and studied his prey.

"Captain Cross, shall I give the order?"

Satisfied about her identity, he nodded. "Prepare to board her, Black. Take no prisoners. I want booty, not whining idiots taking up precious space in my hold."

He exchanged the brass instrument for a silver one, his cane. Quickly yanking off the skull top, the rapier encased within the ornate scabbard flashed in the sun. He scratched a fresh notch in the rail. "Our fourth salvaged ship in the last six months, and not of our own making. This year will prove to be our most profitable year."

Anchoring as close to shore as possible, Cross watched his sailors crowd into boats and row to the wreck. He heard the triumphant shouts as the first of the crew arrived. Before the third team had landed, he saw men diving off the stern into the water. "Blast! Have our corsairs turned into courtesans?" He shoved a flintlock into his sash. "Black, row me ashore."

By the time Cross reached the island, his soggy men had congregated on the palm-fringed beach. None would look at him. A few shivered with fright.

Always ill-tempered, hiking on soft, slippery sand cut his already short fuse by half. His thigh muscle cramped, causing a relentless drone of pain. He pulled out his pistol and thrust it against the temple of the nearest man, the ship's doctor, Dugan, who fell to his knees. A darker stain bloomed on his damp britches. "Why aren't you and the men plundering?"

"Er, well, you s-see the ship, the _Jewel_, sir… Th-the men. I mean the f-former occupants—"

"For Christ's sake, spit it out." He cocked the hammer. "Tell me in five words or less or you'll never speak a sixth."

"Plague ship, sir."

"Anyone alive?"

"All dead."

"Wet or dry?"

"I beg your pardon, Captain?"

"The corpses? Are they oozing or did the insects and crows pick them dry?"

"Dry, sir."

"Then don't touch them, and they won't touch you."" He returned his gun to his belt. No one moved. He rolled his eyes. "Superstitious, ninnies. Lieutenant, come with me."

Without putting undo weight on his bad leg, Cross boarded the ship. True to Dugan's word, the bodies of the seamen were little more than bones and tattered rags. He moved about the deck and roamed through the officer's quarters. With a well-placed jab of his cane, a skeleton tipped off a chair and crashed to the floor. The Captain, he surmised. Deadly bore.

The stacks of coins lined up next to a strongbox were more to his liking. His bulging pockets jangled when he turned away.

About to give the all clear, a battered, water-stained medical bag caught his eye. He traced his finger over three faint gold leaf initials, J.E.W. "What the devil?"

Cross tapped his cane against the floor, mentally reviewing all the skeletal remains. The men were of average height. In the flesh, the tops of their heads would barely have reached his chin. He swung around to face his lieutenant, who was leaning against the doorway. "Black, I suspect one of the men might be alive. Send out search parties and comb every inch of this island from stem to stern. Have them report back to me by sunset."

Black straightened but did not salute. "Aye, Captain."

Cross added, "Make it crystal clear to the men if the man is found, he's not to be harmed." He spread open his palm and displayed silver coins. "There will be a handsome reward."

Lifting an eyebrow at the generous gesture, Black nodded his understanding and withdrew.

~.~

Setting up a command post on the beach, Cross had Black haul a chair and table from the _Jewel_and place it under a large, shady palm. While waiting he idly aimed playing cards at Black's hat, which still rested on the lieutenant's head. The game dragged on for hours. The first search parties trudged back an hour before sunset with no stranger in tow. Cross abandoned the cards in favor of glumly staring at the sand beneath his feet.

Purple shadows had gobbled up a good portion of the tawny-hued beachfront when he spied a lone figure rushing to where he sat. An energetic, pint-sized sailor he had nicknamed Flea. Cross twisted in his chair and studied the darkening horizon to hide his disappointment. When he turned back, Flea was standing at attention in front of him.

"C'ptn, I found the man."

Cross shook off his stupor and leaned forward. "What's he look like?"

"Ugly… and sickly, feverish. In the throws of plague, I reckon."

"Where is he?"

The sailor pointed to a dense grove of palms. "Yonder. The jungle opens into a small clearing. There's a plantation house."

The chair fell backwards as Cross stood up. He grabbed the weatherworn valise from under the desk. "Take me to him."

Dugan came forward to take the case. "You'll also be wanting a physician, Captain?"

"Do you even know what a leech is, you leech?" Cross gripped the bag tighter. "What I need is a lackey. Grab a torch and as many supplies as you can carry. If any doctoring is to be done, I'll do it."

Turning to the sailor, Cross said, "Lead the way."

~.~

The plantation house was little better than a weather-beaten shack with broken steps leading to a lopsided porch. Shutters clung to the windows at odd angles.

Cross strode ahead and entered the darkened bungalow first. His heart sank at the sight of a dazed, babbling man in the bed. The poor bastard was indeed ugly. A disfiguring scar swirled down his sweaty cheek to his chin.

There was only one thing to do. Put the wretched creature out of his misery. Cross walked to the foot of the bed, pulled out his pistol, and took aim. About to shoot, he remembered the medical bag, and lowered his weapon. No reason to be hasty. "Do you know or did you ever hear of a James Evan Wilson?"

The senseless words slowed to a halt, followed by a small cough. Then the man appeared to writhe in agony, squinting his eyes and opening and shutting his mouth, making huffing noises.

Clearly, the man was an imbecile. His brain burned to a crisp by fever. Ill at ease, Cross gave up waiting. He had his fill of the stranger's death-rattle soliloquy. Again, he took aim. One jerk of his finger and it would all be over.

Lightening flashed outside the window followed by a lazy rumble of thunder. The dogs had been unleashed. Rain pelted the roof.

"Rain," the corpse said, and sniggered gleefully. "Too late to save me."

Only one man could laugh that way. "Wilson." He put the gun down and went to the side of the bed.

Eyes glazing over with fever, Wilson beamed a crooked smile. "House, you're here. Does this mean I'm dead?"

"Not yet, but you're well on your way."

At the insistent tugging of his sleeve House bent down. His ear tickled with warm puffs of air as Wilson whispered, "You're the best hallucination so far. Don't leave me."

"Never." House pressed his fingertips against the pulse. It was thready. "Now rest."

Wilson obediently behaved and closed his eyes.

He dug into his pocket and tossed the promised reward onto the table. Busy thinking of a way to widen the distance between Wilson and the graveyard, he dismissed Flea with nod of his head and signaled Dugan to stand behind him with a torch. He grasped his patient's bristled jaw and mused out loud. "What does your body want to tell me?"

He inspected the mouth, the eyes, and every orifice down to the groin. With professional detachment he listened to the heart and lungs. Palpated the organs. Examined the hands and feet, searched between every finger and toe. Since he knew intimately Wilson's history and anatomy, there was nothing to muddy the diagnosis.

"It's yellow fever. There is no cure," he told Dugan. For his own satisfaction more than his fatuous colleague's, he added, "But it's not contagious."

Dugan mopped the sweat from his face with a grimy rag. "How do you know?"

"A mosquito told me."

"I beg your pardon?"

"That's what the Royal Medical Society said, but more succinctly. They called me a charlatan."

Dugan stood stricken. "Did you run them through with your sword, sir?"

"Excellent idea, but no. And seeing that you demonstrated such acute intelligence, I'm promoting you to my personal messenger, which means you can no longer practice medicine unless I demote you. Tell Black to strip the _Jewel_down to her nails." His attention was drawn away by a stream of water leaking through a hole in the roof. "And while you're there, have him load you up with enough supplies to make this place habitable."

"But if there's no cure, why stay?"

"Because I promised. Now go."

House drew up a chair, propped his legs on the edge of the bed, and began his vigil. Determined to keep his word—for good or bad, he placed his loaded pistol on the table within easy reach.

~.~

"Don't be foolhardy, House."

"House, don't do this."

"House, yesss…Oh!"

Five years had passed since House had heard his name spoken other than to indicate a dwelling. He chided himself for preening under Wilson delirious ravings, but he took pleasure knowing he was in Wilson's thoughts.

As good a physician as he was, all it took to soothe Wilson's agitated state was to hold his hand and intertwine fingers. No one made House feel more needed, or made him realize whom he needed most.

"You look ravishing tonight, Abigail."

"What?" House peeled off a cool compress from Wilson's forehead in order to see him better.

"Trust me, H-H—"

"That's more like it, but don't expect me to trust you, you womanizer," House muttered.

"H-Henri—"

"Who is Henry?"

"—etta. A chaperone is unnecessary when we row on the lake."

"Don't believe the scoundrel, Henrietta."

"Libbie…"

"Christ!" Jealousy scorched through House's veins. No one could get under his skin like Wilson. House left the cabin and smoked a thick cigar until he simmered down.

~.~

"House?"

"House is napping. Talk to Abigail." His pride had been pricked too many times by Wilson's addled meanderings to lose precious sleep. House switched his position on the cot, turned his back to his patient, and crushed his face into the pillow.

"Hey."

Barely conscious, he swatted at something poking his shoulder.

The sound of crockery shattering into dozens of pieces worked like a tonic. House sprang from his bed. Wilson was struggling to reach the pitcher.

All thoughts of cloying females submerged under a wave or relief, House cleared his throat and said simply, "Let me do that."

Wilson downed two cups of water and fell into a deep, healing sleep. House checked for fever. Other than a sheet of sweat, the skin was cool to the touch. Wilson was on the mend.

~.~

After two days had passed and Wilson's health showed steady improvement, House sent a message to Black to ready the ship for sailing in seven days time, and ordered Dugan to stay with his shipmates and help. He watched from the porch post until the doctor was out of sight and his footsteps had melted into the jungle.

He inhaled the flower-scented, tropical air before walking inside. Freedom indeed smelled sweet. Even better was sharing his freedom with someone he cared about. Without hesitation he slipped under the covers and greedily pulled Wilson into his arms. Other than a soft hum, which might have indicated anything, Wilson did not speak, but neither did he wrestle away.

Unable to completely tamp down his carnal hunger, House skimmed the contours of Wilson's chest with his palm. He closed his eyes and savored the smooth skin until his fingertips discovered a scar that ran up to the shoulder blade.

With immediate dispatch, Wilson's hand covered his, removing it from the ropey cable of tissue. "Mmm, you're going the wrong way." It was towed to a warm place incubating a rising erection. His own organ became unspeakably hard when Wilson's hand stroked it.

With every ounce of strength he possessed he stifled Wilson's hand, thwarting the rhythmic motion. He asked, "Are you sure you're ready? Copulating so soon might…" He wanted to say, _kill me_, but opted on the side of magnanimity, "…kill you."

Wilson raised himself on one elbow, his expression, eager. "Do your best."

~.~

Remarkably, each day of debauchery blended into the next without he or Wilson dying or even succumbing to vapors, although they had tipped off the cliff countless times.

One evening after an extraordinary expenditure of energy, House awoke from his slumber to find Wilson asleep, moonlight outlining his profile. He idly caressed the damaged cheek. The blemish was not half as bad as he had originally thought. The shadows from the shutters had given it a falsely, sinister cast.

Wilson's eyes fluttered open. He reached up and pulled House down for a kiss, then settled back into the pillows with a satisfied grunt.

Full of appreciation for the frontal attack, House said, "The life of a pirate improved your stamina ten-fold."

"I could say the same for you."

"I'm not a pirate. I'm a privateer. I kill and plunder with the full blessings of the British Empire."

"Good for you. Finally, a legal means for channeling your immoral propensities."

"What? No lecture?"

"You are as you always were, only more so." Wilson raised his hands. "You're the first blackguard I'm willing to freely surrender my sword to."

House narrowed his eyes. "Name the men who _forced_you to yield."

"Only you would think that." Wilson replied with a touch of his old asperity. "I mean commanders. More often than not I was on the wrong end of a sword or the wrong end of a battle. I changed ships five times in as many years." Wilson pointed to his medical kit. "My black bag was my talisman. Every ship needed a doctor." Twisting a finger around House's chest hair, he playfully tugged. "And what's your story, Captain House? Obviously, medicine didn't play a large part in your seafaring success."

"You're right. A marathon session of high stakes pharo while guzzling barrels of rum saddled me prematurely with a ship." Unexpectedly, House felt a pang of guilt. Their solitary time together was coming to an end in two days and there was a lot to discuss. "About my name. We have to talk. My men know me as Cross, Captain Cross."

Wilson quirked an eyebrow. "Maybe I was wrong and you did change. You found religion?"

"No. As in, 'Don't cross me.'"

"Uh-huh." Wilson nodded. "Or, as in, your foul temper."

"Don't disparage. A hefty dose of spleen and an exasperated eye-roll motivates the sluggards better than any cat o' nine tails can."

A smothered noise escaped from Wilson.

"What? You find torture funny?" House arched an eyebrow. "I know this little shop in Belize where you can buy—"

"No. I was thinking about our aliases. I'm known as Doctor Lamb."

"Agnus Dei," House drawled. Amusing, but not half as amusing as Wilson bound in leather straps.

"The men on my first ship dubbed me Lamb. They said when I was around ladies I was a wolf dressed in sheep's clothing." Wilson fingered his scar. "Not that the name applies now."

The look of regret on Wilson's face squelched the spark of jealousy that rekindled in House's gut. "Your man-made dimple has its charm." He grabbed Wilson's chin. Turned it right and left. "You hid your devilish streak within you. Now a small portion of it is visible. I like it."

The flawed cheek twisted Wilson's smile into a wicked grin. "Speaking of which…,"

House gasped as a hand cradled his balls. The sensation sizzled throughout his groin. The fire quickly burned out however, when the hand continued down to the deep gash in his thigh. "…what happened?"

He squirmed under the sheets until the errant hand was again in a location to do exquisite mischief. "A shark mistook my leg for lunch."

"My god!" Wilson said, horrified, and straightaway transformed into his personal physician. "Does it cause you much pain?"

"Only when there isn't a distraction."

"Then I have just the remedy." Wilson receded under the covers. Within seconds any twinges of discomfort drowned in waves of ecstasy.


	3. Chapter 3

Not until the little slice of paradise slipped below the horizon did House return to his cabin. He caught Wilson peering through a porthole, wearing nothing but a wistful expression.

"Get under the blankets. The cook will be here soon with the healing broth I prescribed. Unless you pretend you're worse off than his terrible cooking I will have no excuse to share my quarters with you."

"Why did I ever let you talk me into this charade?" Wilson ensnared House around the waist and bestowed a juicy kiss that left him breathless before letting go. "Never mind. I remember."

As soon as Wilson had settled into the berth, there was a knock on the door. The cook silently placed the food on the table and bowed his way out.

Before House had filled the second tankard with ale, Wilson, garbed in a Chinese silk robe, had sat down and snatched a couple of slices of rare roast beef off his plate.

"Now I'm convinced you're a pirate," he said with grudging admiration. "You'll have no trouble holding your own among my greedy crew."

Wilson slowed down chewing as if he had bitten into a piece of gristle.

"Act the invalid until we land in New Orleans. I'll boot Dugan off the ship and give you his position."

"House." Wilson arranged his utensils on the table. "Dugan may be incompetent, but he's all you got. He pointed to his right cheek. "This, a half-dozen more scars, and a bout of yellow fever are all I have to show for five years of seafaring. It doesn't agree with me."

House's smoldering jealousy raged out of control. He slammed his tankard down on the table, jiggling the dishes. "Who is waiting for you? Abigail? Becky? Charlotte? All of them? Did you omit any letter of the alphabet?"

"What? No! I-I… just no." Wilson rubbed the back of his neck. "What put that crazy notion into your head?"

"You did, fever boy. You never stopped talking about all the petticoated booty you chased since we last parted."

Wilson pursed his lips and went very still. "You mean the night I thought you had died? Nothing mattered to me after that. Who I slept with or what I did held no significance." Wilson pressed his palms to his eyes. "When I realized I had yellow fever, do you know how I felt? Relieved. My grief over losing you would finally come to an end."

"You don't know how close you came." House suppressed a shudder as he recalled aiming the gun at Wilson's head.

"Unlike you, House, I have only one skill. Now that I know you're alive, I want to put down roots and practice medicine in my own name. I might have a chance of growing old if I do. You're welcome to visit anytime."

"What makes you think I don't want to hang up my sash and telescope?"

"What perennial eight-year old would?"

"You weren't the only one whose life was turned upside down, you know. Did you see the ship's name painted on the stern?"

"_L'Imbeau_? I pondered on it. I know French and _L'Imbeau_ isn't a French word."

"Ponder on it more. Sound it out." House encouraged, like a country schoolmarm. He leaned back in his seat and watched Wilson's mouth silently move until the eyes lit with understanding.

"Limbo."

"Where I was stuck when I thought you were dead."

"House, you really mean you're ready to give up your life as a pirate?"

"Privateer, and yes. The buccaneer stops here. Besides, people don't change but governments do. It's time to get out. Black hinted he wanted a stake in the _L'Imbeau_. And he's honest—at least honest enough to pledge a down payment in genuine silver coin."

Warming to Wilson's idea, House thought about where they should go. "Too many people know me as Cross in New Orleans. How about we settle in Charleston?"

Wilson shifted uneasily in his chair. "Pass. Townspeople know me there as Lamb."

The hair on the back of House's neck stood on end. "People or a specific woman?" House caught a barely whispered, "Wife." He must have looked like a pirate scorned because Wilson raised his hands to fend off his wrath.

"She was a widow longing for affection and I was lonely. It was a mistake I will always regret."

Slightly mollified, House tossed out Wilmington. Wilson couldn't meet him in the eye. "There's another bride?"

"A widow at a very tender age. She was left destitute and helpless."

"What about Williamsburg?"

"It's a long, sad story that involves leprosy."

"We're running out of coastline, Wilson. Was there one green acre on the Eastern Seaboard Doctor Lamb didn't prance or frolic?"

"Uh… Washington."

Suddenly House had a vision of himself in a drunken haze, kissing a brunette in a quaint, brick Delaware church. Perhaps Wilson deserved leniency. "Skip it, where else?"

Wilson tapped his finger to his lips, his renovated face a mix of sincerity and mischief. "We could go further north, inland. Haven't set foot in New Jersey since before we went to England."

"Return to Baker Street? "

Wilson quirked one eyebrow as if to say, "Why not?"

More to the point, why had they ever left? House felt a twitch in his britches and imagined the renewed swordplay in their old lodgings. "Princeton is a fitting place for us to end our adventures, Wilson."

.

_fin_


End file.
